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Travel Piece  by Ida Nasatir

"A Letter from Paris" by Ida Nasatir, Aug. 18, 1950

Aug 18, 1950—Ida Nasatir, "A Letter from Paris," Southwestern Jewish Press, pages 2, 7:   July 28, 1950, Dear Julia and Mac: How long ago was it since we left home? A day? A century? You see, a rapid succession of events blurs time, and one loses sight of single days. That is, I have. Almost a week has passed since we arrived in Paris and I am engulfed by much. I've come to believe that half of the people in Paris live outdoors. Such crowds of people can be seen only in Times Square, and everywhere there are countless outdoor cafes where people order drinks, cafe au lait and brioche, and where they may sit for as long as they wish, watching the odd noisy traffic and the endless streams of people passing by. It is amusing to watch some of the Americans.  One of them (let's call him "Joe") went to a famous restaurant the other night and ordered a thick, tender juicy steak topped with goose livers. You could tell he was impressed. But something was missing.  Finally in exasperation, he called the waiter and said: "Garkon, where the hell's the catsup? You can't expect a man to eat a steak without catsup. I thought you French knew something about cooking. If you did, you'd know it was the catsup that gave the steak its taste."  My first vivid impressions of Paris are the tipping methods. Waiters, bartenders, usherettes and lavabo attendants receive no wages and so depend on tips for their living. And tip YOU MUST.  Some of the better restaurants and nightclubs add the tip automatically to the check. The sum varies from 12 to 15 percent, according to the elegance of the place...On this subject one is storngly reminded of the ode:  To tip or not to tip; that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer/ The barbs and glances of outraged waiters,/ Or to give francs against this sea of faces/ And by placating end them. To smile—and pay/ No more; and by a tip to say we end/ The heartache, and the thousand scorns/ Tourists are heir to—'tis a consummation/ Devoutly to be wish'd. To smile—to tip—/ To pay. Perchance to bleed—ay, there's the rub; / For in that tip or service who else is paid/ Before we shuffle off this mortal coil?/ One must tip to others that we know not of/ Thus "Ser-veece" does make cowards of us all... Next week, I plan to enter the Sorbonne University to study French. Thus far, my pidgin use of the language (plus a violent use of my hands and facial expressions for further emphasis) put me into "American Joe's" class.  Off I go to call a "Garkon." With much devotion to you and all those so dear to me, Ida Nasatir.